


Sit Back and Relax

by Brangwen



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-25 21:23:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/957747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brangwen/pseuds/Brangwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames gets a black eye, the job gets changed up at the last minute, and Arthur discovers what Eames has been hiding under those baggy clothes.</p><p>Being revised as of Fall 2017.  Formerly "The Markham Job"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It might never have happened if Arthur hadn't been the only one at the workspace when Eames returned.  Ariadne and their extractor, Thea, had gone on a coffee run (which Arthur privately suspected had less to do with coffee and more to do with the clear, sunny weather and the park across the street), and Yusuf had left for Mombasa the previous day after finalizing a custom Somnacin blend for the job.  They aren’t scheduled to actually run the job for another two weeks, but Arthur believes in the Boy Scout motto and had seen no reason to leave his work, sunny day or no.

He is reviewing the mark’s credit card statements for the second time, surrounded by piles of paper, his laptop, empty cans of soda, and the remains of a turkey sandwich, and listening to Rachmaninoff.  However, he isn’t so absorbed in either the paperwork or the music that he fails to notice Eames slinking through the suite's front door and gingerly easing himself down on one of the cots in the dreaming room.  

Eames had obviously hoped to avoid Arthur’s attention,  but can’t help allowing himself a nearly inaudible hiss as his aching back sinks into the mesh surface.  That slight noise, combined with Eames’ uncharacteristically quiet demeanor, puts Arthur on alert, and he stands abruptly and strides into the dreaming room, where he pulls up short at the sight of Eames’ swollen eye. 

“Jesus, Eames. What happened?  You were supposed to be tailing the mark’s sister at the mall, not getting into fights!”

Eames scowls.  “You didn’t tell me her luncheon date was a senator’s wife, or that the senator’s wife has a pair of former Secret Service agents as her bodyguards.  And you certainly didn’t mention that said bodyguards have a penchant for fisticuffs. They thought I was tailing her, not Kirsten, and were overly enthusiastic about trying to discourage any further attention on my part.” 

Arthur squints at him, perplexed.  “She wasn’t supposed to meet with Mrs. Grenich until Thursday.  The only item on her calendar today was a shopping trip, and you should have been able to blend in there easily enough.” 

Eames shifts his weight on the cot, wincing.  “We’ll have to figure something else out.  The bodyguards were discreet enough to escort me out behind the building before things got noisy, but Kirsten still saw my face when they went for me, and I’ve a feeling I’m going to be particularly noticeable once this eye goes purple and black.” 

Arthur is silent for a moment, the wheels turning in his head as he smoothly adjusts to a mental Plan B in which Eames will forge someone other than the mark’s sister.  He trusted that Arthur would take care of the planning.  In the meantime, Eames intended to take care of his eye – now swollen nearly shut – and investigate his aching ribs, and try to find some painkillers.   

Arthur blinked, and then refocused his attention on Eames’ face before quickly scanning the rest of his body.  “Where else did they get you?  You’re holding yourself too tense for your face to be the only injury.” 

“One of them got a solid blow to the ribs, and the other had a go at my back before shoving me off.  Probably just bruises, but I’m not too keen on moving much at the moment.  I don’t suppose Yusuf left any of his codeine cocktails behind…?” 

Arthur’s lips quirk and a dimple flashes at Eames before he responds.  “No, you’re stuck with aspirin and ace bandages.  Let's get some ice for your eye and then I’ll take a look at your ribs.”  He hurries to the kitchenette to hunt for a plastic bag.  After a minute, he returns with a bag of ice and holds it up dubiously.  “We seem to be out of paper towels again, and you don’t want to put this directly on your eye…”

Eames holds up one finger, and with the other hand, fishes a clean handkerchief out of his pants pocket.  Arthur wraps the ice bag in the handkerchief and Eames gratefully holds it to his bruised face, flinching slightly at the cold but then sighing in relief as it begins to numb the throbbing pain.   Arthur steps away again and returns with aspirin and a glass of water, and Eames beams at him. 

“Ta, darling.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Eames.”  Eames closes his good eye for a moment as he swallows the pills down.  When he opens it again, Arthur is still looking at his face, his expression unreadable.

“Can you sit up?  I can wrap your ribs if they need it, and see if any of them need more attention than that.”  Eames acquiesces with a muffled groan, then reapplies the ice to his eye while Arthur deftly unbuttons his shirt. 

Arthur had known Eames was broad across the chest and shoulders, and he's seen Eames’ sleekly muscled forearms many times, but even so, he is surprised at the sheer brawn revealed as he slips the forger’s unbuttoned shirt down his thick biceps.  Eames is solid muscle across the chest and in his arms, with less definition but still an appealing thickness in his midsection.  His tanned skin is dusted with light brown hair and indelibly marked with far more ink than his occasional v-neck shirts hint at.  He also has a large contusion staining his lower left rib.  Arthur prods it gently with his fingertips, noting the heat of Eames’ skin along with the thankfully intact structure of the bone underneath. 

This close, Eames has a faintly warm, woodsy fragrance to him, underlain with a citrusy note that Arthur recognizes from a pomade, and a salty tang of sweat.  Arthur unconsciously opens his lips slightly as he breathes in, and a faint flush stains his cheeks and the tips of his ears as Eames’ scent seems to rocket through his bloodstream and straight down into his groin. 

Arthur had immediately noted that Eames was attractive, of course – those lips! -- but he's always had a rule about not dating in the dreamshare community, and he generally manages to avoid physical contact with his teammates. He's administered first aid when necessary, including to Eames, but he had never found himself in precisely this situation, faced with such a quantity of naked flesh.  

The air in the room seems to stand still, the faint strains of Rachmaninoff in the background fading away at this unexpectedly intimate _tête_ -à- _tête._

Eames had flinched slightly but remained mostly stoic while Arthur inspected his bruised rib.  He now watches Arthur speculatively as Arthur carefully draws his shirt down his arms and off his back. 

“D’you think it’s cracked?” he asks, as Arthur seems to have been struck silent.

“No.  You were right, just a bruise,” Arthur answers, his voice betraying him by sounding an unusually deeper note.  He drops the shirt on another cot, clears his throat and says in a more normal voice, “lean forward a little so I can see your back.” 

Eames complies, and Arthur kneels next to him and scans the expanse of tanned, toned flesh.  “Here,” he murmurs, touching just above Eames’ belt with three fingers where a fist-sized patch of skin is puffy and discolored an angry red.  Eames breathes out explosively, but says nothing.  Arthur slowly flattens his palm until it is in full contact with Eames’ skin, and pauses.  Eames’ back is as broad and well-defined as his shoulders, and an appealing divot runs up his spine between the planes of muscle.  Arthur slots his thumb up that divot while his fingers and palm span Eames’ lower back to his waist.  

Arthur doesn't realize he is going to say anything until he hears the words coming out of his mouth.  “You hide _this_ under those appalling shirts.”  He feels his cheeks heat briefly, but doesn’t back away.  Eames’ skin is warm and tactile under his palm, and the sight of all that curvature of muscle and black ink is unexpectedly arousing.

Eames huffed a laugh.  “Your disapproval is noted, Arthur.”  He doesn’t shrug Arthur’s hand off, though, and when he turns to look directly at Arthur kneeling on the floor next to him, his expression underneath the ice pack is more intrigued than offended. 

Arthur holds his gaze almost defiantly.  “Why cover these” – he runs his hand up along Eames’ spine to his shoulder and lightly circles his upper arm, tracing a bold tribal tattoo there – “with a baggy polyester sack?”

Eames shrugs. “I’m a forger. My physical body is irrelevant to the work I do here.” 

“Bullshit. You don’t get to look like this” – he squeezes a firmly rounded bicep – “without putting a lot of time and effort in.  Not to mention all of the tattoos.  Why not show them off?” 

“Why, Arthur _._   I didn’t know you cared to look.”  The tone is gently mocking, but the single blue-gray eye that catches Arthur’s deep brown gaze holds some heat and more than a little interest.  A spark of mutual attraction kindles and hung in the air between them.    Arthur feels his breath quicken and his cock stir as a dozen possible responses – and their possible repercussions – flash through his mind. 

Then the front door of the suite opens and light rapid footsteps sound in the hall, heading toward Arthur’s office, pausing, and then moving toward the dreaming room.  Arthur stands up quickly, briefly touching Eames’ shoulder for balance, and is moving toward the door of the dreaming room before Ariadne enters it.   Her round brown eyes move rapidly from the shirtless, ice-pack-bedecked Eames on the cot to Arthur, fully dressed but with hands jammed awkwardly into his pants pockets in an attempt to conceal telltale wood.

“Whoa.  What have you two been up to?”  Her voice is half concerned, half titillated. 

“Eames was spotted tailing the mark’s sister.  I was about to wrap up his bruised ribs,” Arthur says quickly.  Eames gives Ariadne a woebegone look, pouting his lower lip out and removing the ice pack to reveal his (now much less puffy but much more purple) eye.  She exclaims with sympathy and rushes to Eames’ side as Arthur and his rogue penis dart out of the room. 

Yusuf had left the first aid kit a bloody mess after a test tube had shattered in his fingers, and Arthur makes only a cursory effort to find ace bandages in the resulting chaos before giving up.  He pokes his head into the dreaming room, where Ariadne is cooing over Eames’ bruises, and says shortly, “sorry, looks like we don’t have anything to wrap you up with.” 

Eames waves him away unconcernedly, and Arthur returns to his office as Eames resumes telling Ariadne an enthusiastic and undoubtedly embellished version of his attack. 

He tries to bury himself in his research again, but finds it difficult.  The polished keys of his laptop and the crisp paper feel alien and unfriendly after the rough heat of Eames’ skin on his fingertips.  The text swims in front of his eyes, and he closes them.  An image of Eames’ bare, tattooed torso rises unbidden in his mental vision.  His cock twitches again and he curses himself inwardly for breaking his own rule, opening his eyes and glaring at the credit card statements again.  He is relieved for the distraction for only a moment when an instant message flashes on his screen:

 _i neglected to mention, but_   _one of those bastards booted me in the arse while I was down.  You should probably take a look at it._

Arthur lets himself answer without thinking:

> _Well, we can't have an untreated injury delaying the job._
> 
> _I doubt Ariadne wants to watch me inspecting your ass, though._

_oh, i think she might surprise you_

_but perhaps my hotel room would be a better venue?_

> _How urgent is this injury?_

_no time like the present_

> _Lead the way, Mr. Eames._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur breaks his own rule against messing around with coworkers. He can't help it.

Having once made up his mind to act, Arthur is a model of efficiency.  He packs his laptop and papers away, turns off the light in his office, and hustles Eames out of the suite, pausing only to explain to their extractor that Eames is having trouble seeing out of his injured eye and that he, Arthur, is going to make sure Eames makes it back to his hotel to rest.

“Let me take him, Arthur, I know you need to finish up those credit card statements,” Thea offers. 

Arthur is prepared for this.  “No, you and Ari already took plenty of time off this afternoon.  Work with her on the museum layout, and try to figure out how to incorporate the mark’s high school science teacher into the scene. Eames is going to have to shift his forgery since he was spotted, and the science teacher is the best alternative.”   

Thea looks skeptical but nods and heads into the conference room to update Ariadne on the change of plans.  Arthur prods Eames out the door and closes it behind them.

“Well done, darling, you almost made that sound plausible,” Eames murmurs in his ear.

“Don’t push it, Eames.  I could do exactly what I told her I was doing, and leave you alone in your room,” Arthur warns, heading toward the building exit to hail a cab. 

Eames holds both hands up in a placating gesture.  “I appreciate your concern for the well-being of my poor abused arse, and would never knowingly jeopardize any opportunity to be on the receiving end of your tender ministrations.”  The smirk on his face is in direct contradiction to his conciliatory tone.   Arthur rolls his eyes, but the push he gives Eames toward the waiting cab is gentle, and he can’t help flashing a tiny smile out the window as he sits down, even as a voice in the back of his head asks him what, exactly, he thinks he's doing here. 

Through the whole (thankfully brief) cab ride, Arthur is hyper aware of Eames’ bulk on the seat next to him, the warm pressure of the other man’s thigh against his own.  With Eames on his left, the bad eye was hidden, until Eames turned to him and opened his mouth to speak.  Arthur braced himself for more arch innuendo, but Eames’ tone and expression was open and direct.

“So do you play for both teams, or just the one?” 

“I don’t play for any team that has a coworker on it,” Arthur says wryly.  “But outside work – both.”  He add, candidly, “Not that I play very often.” 

Eames looks thoughtful, but doesn’t say anything for a moment.  Then he says quietly “Pity, that.  You know, if this is going to –”

Arthur cuts him off.  “It’s my rule, and I can make an exception if I want to.  Where… _when_ did you get all that ink?  We've worked together five times in the past two years and I've never seen it.” He lets Eames see the frank admiration and arousal in his face and voice, and his left hand strays to Eames’ knee and squeezes. 

“That’s how I know I’m – _at work_.”  Eames winks at Arthur with his good eye.  “They don't appear.  Better than any totem.  Although if I’d known you would be so appreciative, I might have created some just for you.  And you haven’t even seen the full picture yet.” 

“And the rest of what you’re hiding under there...”  Arthur shakes his head and squeezes a little higher up Eames’ thigh. 

Luckily for the cabbie’s sensibilities, they pull up outside Eames’ hotel before Arthur can continue his exploration.  He pays the man and follows Eames through the hotel lobby and into a tiny elevator. 

When the doors shut, enclosing them in momentary privacy, Arthur pushes Eames against the wall – careful not to touch the bruises – and runs his hands up Eames’ chest, reveling in the taut bulk of his pecs, the hard bullets of his nipples, the breadth and mass of his shoulders.  Eames inhales swiftly and opens his mouth, but the doors open again before he can say whatever he was thinking.  He brushes past Arthur and heads down the hall, opening the door to his room and holding it with a mock flourish as Arthur slips past him into the darkened room.  Eames closes the door and turns to face Arthur.

“There was something you wanted me to look at?” Arthur inquires, his voice innocent, his dimples mischievous.     

“Yes, my arse requires immediate attention,” Eames declares, shoving Arthur back against the closed door and gripping the side of his face with one hand before tilting his face up infinitesimally and pressing his lips carefully against Arthur’s. 

Arthur reacts immediately, a large hand cradling Eames’ head while he deepens the kiss, the tip of his tongue licking against Eames’ own, drawing back with Eames’ luscious bottom lip gently between his teeth before moving back to cover Eames’ mouth fully, luxuriating in the hot glide of their mouths together and the rasp of Eames’ stubble on his skin. 

Eames tastes like mint and black tea and adrenaline.  Beneath the woodsy, citrus scent Arthur had first noticed in the dreaming room, he feels almost as if he can smell the blood in the bruise on Eames’ face, a faintly metallic tang that perversely excites him. 

Eames presses his body more fully against Arthur’s, using his bulk to immobilize Arthur against the door, gripping Arthur’s hip and grinding his half-hard cock against Arthur.  Arthur moans into Eames’ mouth and thrusts back against him, a hand wandering down to palm Eames’ ass through his trousers, careful to avoid the contusion on his lower back. 

Arthur draws back then, breathing heavily, his pupils blown.  “I can't do a thorough examination with all those clothes in my way." 

For all that Eames cultivates an air of indolence, he's capable of reacting with a decisive, deadly speed when the situation demands it.  Arthur has seen him do so in dreamwork; it's one of the reasons he works so frequently with Eames.  Eames displays the same alacrity now, unbuckling his belt and zipping his trousers down before Arthur has finished unbuttoning his shirt.   Within a few seconds he stands proudly naked, still half-hard, before Arthur’s approving eyes.  He steps back to allow Arthur a good long look, one hand lazily pulling his own cock, the other hanging at his side.  The expression on his face is one-third amusement, two-thirds arousal. 

The bruises notwithstanding, Arthur feels as if a visual feast has been laid before him.  He leans back against the door and takes his time looking Eames over from head to foot, noting the powerful thighs, the chiseled chest and abs, the sheer brawn of his arms and shoulders, the gorgeous mouth and fine bone structure of his face, the tracery of words and images all over the forger's torso, before returning his gaze to the neatly trimmed body hair and the impressive girth of the now fully engorged cock in Eames’ hand. 

“Turn around.”  His voice is authoritative.  Eames raises an eyebrow, smirks, and complies. 

“Your ass looks fine from here,” Arthur notes, then immediately amends that to “ _more_ than fine.”  He stepped forward to conduct a detailed inspection with both hands, tracing his thumbs lightly down the crack of Eames' delectable ass while his fingers greedily squeeze a firm, full cheek in each hand.  He mouths the side of Eames’ neck, biting down at the juncture of neck and shoulder over a bulge of muscle, then slips one hand around Eames’ front and strokes his hard cock, pulling Eames’ body back against his own and letting Eames feel Arthur’s own considerable wood against his hip.    

“What… _how_ did you hide this under those horrible pants… oh, never mind.”  He spins Eames around again and slots their mouths together forcefully, letting the action communicate all of his hunger for the extraordinary male body in his arms. 

Eames’ hands creep up to Arthur’s tie, skillfully unknotting it and unbuttoning Arthur’s shirt even as he continues kissing Arthur, panting slightly into Arthur’s mouth and biting swiftly at Arthur's lips before pressing them ravenously back to his own.  When he has Arthur’s shirt unbuttoned down his chest, he bends his head to nip at Arthur’s neck, sucking a purple mark onto his collarbone before Arthur can react. Arthur swats at his head when he realizes what Eames is doing, and Eames ducks, laughing.  He continues to unbutton and unbuckle Arthur and drop kisses down his chest, tongue darting out lightning-fast toward a nipple, before sinking to his knees and looking up through his full lashes into Arthur’s awestruck eyes, one hand circling Arthur’s cock, the other frankly pumping his own. 

“Fuck, yes.  God.  Yes.”  Arthur’s breath catches as he takes in the picture of Eames on his knees, those full lips poised next to Arthur’s prick, that meaty hand squeezing and stroking it before Eames leaned forward and _licks_ , once, twice, before taking Arthur’s full length into his mouth.  Arthur shudders as the hot slickness envelops him, suckling and pulling at him, the unexpected thrill of a tongue teasing down the underside of his cock before Eames pulls off entirely and then goes back voraciously, alternating firm suction with feather-light pressure. Eames’ lips are red and swollen, and the bruise over his eye might have spoiled the picture but doesn’t, somehow only making him look more wanton.  The scent of male musk surrounding them is heady, the room silent except for their rapid breaths and the slick sound of Eames’ mouth and tongue. 

Arthur grips Eames’ shoulders as he spirals rapidly out of control, his hips twitching increasingly erratically as he nears orgasm.  He's barely able to gasp out warning and push Eames off before catching his own white-hot spurts in his hand. Eames watches from the floor, biting his lower lip and stroking himself rapidly. 

“On the bed,” Eames ordered, the strain of holding off his own orgasm evident in his voice.  Arthur collapses on his back onto the bed, wiping his full palm off on his belly, and Eames swiftly straddles his hips, jacking his own cock roughly until he spills obscenely over Arthur’s bare chest.  Eames sinks back onto Arthur’s thighs for a moment, his eyes closed, panting, before slipping sideways to lie on his back next to Arthur as their breathing quiets. 

Arthur trails his fingers almost absently through the hot, slick mess on his chest, twitching his nose at the musky funk that surrounds them.  “You should never wear clothes,” he murmurs, turning his head to look directly into Eames’ eyes. 

“You’re more appealing this way yourself,” Eames replies, his voice roughened and lower, leering lazily at Arthur’s slender but undeniably masculine frame.    

Arthur is too sex-fatigued to be tactful.  “So… why.  The – mustard yellow _thing_.  Those enormous pants.” 

Eames snorts.  “It’s my persona, darling.  People come to expect a seedy ex-pat, think they’ve figured me out, don’t bother looking any deeper.”    

Arthur sits halfway up and stares at him.  “Are you saying you only dress like that for dreamshare jobs?”

“Works, innit?  You certainly never looked further until today, and you look closer than most.”

It's true – Arthur realizes that he has always thought of Eames as a valuable piece of the puzzle for any given job, a cog that will perform his role in the dream competently and professionally, but he’d never considered that Eames’ teasing, slightly seedy exterior outside the dreamspace concealed anything more complex.  He relaxes back down, lying on his side facing Eames, and smiles ruefully.  “I’m beginning to see how wrong I was.”  

Eames gestures magnanimously with his right hand, then flops it onto Arthur’s thigh. 

The silence stretches between them, oddly companionable.  Arthur idly scratches his balls, and then remembers.  “And how many teams do _you_ play for?  I’ve seen you flirt with… well… everyone.” 

Eames gives him a cheeky grin.  “Never tried a bloke until I started forging.  Figured if I was going to _be_ a woman, I should give a go to fucking a man."

"As you do," Arthur mutters, deadpan, and Eames laughs.  

"So I went to a bar, picked up a couple different lads over a few nights, had a brilliant time with all of them and saw no reason not to continue.  A body’s a body, eh?  We’ve all got fiddly bits that want to be sucked and petted.”  He concludes with a wink and a playful squeeze of Arthur’s softened cock. 

Arthur slaps his hand away, though without much force.  “I need to shower, and get back to the office.  And get you some more ice, you’re turning some terrible colors.”

“So is this it then?  Slap and tickle, curiosity satisfied, back to work?” Eames’ tone is light, but his blue-grey eyes are guarded. 

Arthur isn't prepared for this, and flounders.  “What?  No.  I mean, if you wanted… I’d.  Well.  Yes, it’s breaking my rule, but, if you wanted to do this again…  I just, the job’s in two weeks, we have to completely recalibrate your role and fit the math teacher in somehow, and…” he breaks off, pushing a hand through his hair before he remembers it's sticky with drying semen.  He groans.  “Fuck.” 

Eames snickers.  His eyes have lost the guarded look and are almost affectionate.  “Up you get, then -- you probably want to wash your hair with cold water to get that out.  I’m going to order up some food.  Fancy a bite before you head back?”  He pauses and his tone softens.  “And yes, if you meant it, about again.” 

“Thanks, but I really should go.  I’ll bring you ice from down the hall and aspirin from the lobby as soon as I’m showered.  You should stay, though, ice everything and rest until tomorrow.” Arthur  softens his brusque words by dropping a hasty kiss on Eames’ bare shoulder as he rolls out of bed and pads into the bathroom.   He turns the shower on, and then sticks his head out the bathroom door, taking in the exquisite sight of Eames fully nude and relaxed on the bed.  “Yes, I meant it.” 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames develops a new forge, the team redesigns the dream layout, and Arthur weighs the pros and cons of getting involved with Eames.

5:00 a.m.

_Wake up._

5:03 a.m.

_Eames._

5:08 a.m.

_EAMES,_ _WAKE UP._

5:09 a.m.

_we’ve been made?  
_

_No_

  _then piss off_

_it’s 5 in the bloody ante meridiem_

_Do you have your Jasper Ffolkes-Smythe passport with you?_

_no_

_he’s a person of interest to the FBI after the AdHunter fiasco_

_use louis blake instead_

 

This, Arthur reflected, was why he kept calling Eames when he needed a forger.  Eames might grumble, he might swear, he would certainly snark, but he could be relied on to buckle down to business at a moment’s notice when needed.  Even at five in the morning.

 

5:15 a.m.

_Louis Blake has an 8am flight to Portland & a rental car at the Hertz counter  _

_You’re going to the Clearwater Springs retirement home in Vancouver just across the WA border._

_You’re visiting your 'uncle' Gordon Tanner, Markham’s high school biology teacher._

_Have lunch with him, dope his food, take him into a dream  
_

_Forge Markham and pick up as much detail as you can about their interaction._

_There’s a 4 p.m. flight back.  
_

_not happy_

_planned on sleeping in_

_grievously injured in the line of duty_

_Pull this off and I’ll make it up to you._

_hmmm_

_Regretting this already_

_you’re buying me dinner_

_Ok_

_it’s going to be expensive_

_All right  
_

_gary danko_

_EAMES._

_ARTHUR.  
_

_Fine_

_You win_

_I know_

_Greedy bastard_

_I'll pick you up in an hour  
_

_Bring your laptop_

6:12 a.m.

When Eames walks out of the lobby, Arthur is already lounging against his car in the parking lot.  A welcome aroma of coffee hangs about him, and he holds out a steaming paper cup for Eames without a word.  His eyes sparkle as he takes in Eames’ attire – dark, fitted jeans and a grey v-neck pullover that clings to his powerful arms and shoulders – and casually tousled hair, but he doesn’t comment on the change in his appearance from the day before. 

Once in the car, Arthur heads for the freeway and begins delivering instructions without preamble.  “Tanner has moderate dementia, he won’t know if he knows you or not.  You’re his sister Ellen’s son if the facility asks, but they shouldn’t, he’s not close with his family.  I figured nobody would be too inquisitive about your black eye if you’re just visiting an uncle in a retirement home, but make up whatever story you need to.  Your boarding passes, car rental reservation, a map to Clearwater Springs, an oral sedative and Yusuf’s custom Somnacin blend for dementia patients are in the PASIV case.  You’ve used this blend before, the Rodgers job, remember?”

Eames rubs his jaw.  “This blend is the one that made Ari throw up, isn’t it.” 

“Yeah, but you were fine.  You’re a lot bigger than Ari—”

“And you like it.” 

“And I like it,” Arthur confirms without missing a beat.  “Here's a flash drive.  I copied a dossier with Tanner’s bio, all the photos I could locate, Markham’s grades in his courses, and video of two of Tanner’s commencement speeches and three of his classes from a couple years after Markham graduated.  Should help you with his speech patterns and mannerisms.  I’ll have a copy of Tanner’s biology textbook uploaded before your flight home.” 

Just before Eames opens the car door, Arthur surprises them both by grabbing his shoulder.  “Stay under only as long as you need to.  If you catch an earlier flight back, call me and I’ll be here.”  His deep brown eyes drill into Eames’ startled blue-grey ones.  Eames nods, grabs the PASIV case, and heads toward the security checkpoint.

Arthur watches him with a frankly appraising gaze before pulling away from the loading curb. 

During the drive to the workspace, Arthur runs over the previous day's events in his mind for the nth time.  On principle, of course, it is absolutely not a good idea to get involved with Eames on a romantic or even just a physical level.  The forger’s personal life remains an elusive unknown, even to an accomplished hacker and professional researcher like Arthur, and that makes him uneasy.  On the other hand, _that body. That mouth._ Those skilled, insinuating thief's hands, and that thick, uncut… 

No, mustn’t think about that while driving.  Think about the job.  How to rewrite the scene to use Tanner instead of Markham’s sister.  He schools his mind off the subject of Eames’ considerable personal charms and back into the subject he's being paid to figure out. 

Hacking into Gary Danko’s reservation database presents no challenge at all, and Arthur hums with satisfaction at crossing that item off his to-do list before he drags Thea and Ariadne into the conference room to ruthlessly rewrite the dream sequence.   He has no doubt that Eames will be able to obtain the information he needs to accurately forge Tanner; Arthur's concern is how to make the rest of the dream feel real enough to convince Markham to spill his secrets to Thea. 

Ariadne has designed a masterpiece of a museum maze, full of galleries within galleries, elevators that move sideways instead of up and down, dead ends, hidden doors behind paintings, and a room with rotating sculptures that instantly confounds the sense of direction of anyone who enters it.   The dream is only one level, and Thea is the dreamer, so Arthur can focus entirely on misleading, trapping, and disposing of any unruly projections.  An extensive series of hidden passages mean that he can access any area of the maze by passing through no more than two open rooms, and several of the passages have airtight, soundproof chambers where he or Thea can imprison any mobs that might form.  A “mummy’s treasure” exhibit holds numerous objects that will strike Markham’s mind as a repository for valuables.  Thea will pose as the museum guard for that exhibit and search the “treasures” for the information they seek, after Markham has been led through the exhibit. 

They had originally planned to have Eames, forging Markham’s sister Kirsten, a museum docent in real life, lead him on a tour of the museum maze while casually questioning him about his project at work – a process for using stem cells to regrow heart tissue, which their employer for this job was willing to pay handsomely for.  Gordon Tanner had always been the backup forge target, but they had designed the central premise of the dream around Kirsten’s job. While Tanner’s presence in a museum will be somewhat anomalous, it's too late in the game to scrap the museum setup, and Arthur figures Tanner’s background in biology will make him a not wholly implausible figure for Markham to discuss his project with. 

“Is Eames really fit to travel today, given that he could barely see yesterday?” Thea asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow at Arthur. 

“The swelling around his eye is down, and what's left is mostly bruises,” Arthur lies smoothly.  “Now, how do we ensure the formula shows up as a formula and not as hieroglyphics?  Are we using paper or papyrus in the mummy treasures?”   

“Papyrus, but we could include the Rosetta Stone in the exhibit to make sure the formula translates accurately, if his subconscious does render it in hieroglyphics.” 

Ariadne frowns, moves some of the exhibits in her model around, and finally nods.  “That works.  We’ll put it here by the entry door so he’s sure to see it.” 

“I thought we could have Eames intercept him in the diorama gallery in the Natural History wing, walk him through the BODIES Exhibition room to get human tissue at the forefront of his subconscious, and quiz him about the heart project as they go through the mummy exhibit.  Then he can make his excuses and leave, and let Markham spend as long as he wants in the Classical wing,” Arthur suggests. 

Thea rolls her eyes.  “All those big bosomy nudes should keep his attention long enough for me to sack the Egypt exhibit.” 

“For the record, Arthur, that BODIES thing is really gross and I don’t want to ever have to design something like it again,” Ariadne declares.

“At least you don’t have to dream it,” Thea mutters.

“Yes, fine, _noted_ ,” Arthur says, exasperated.  “Now do you two have it sufficiently fixed that you can go under and run it through a few times?  I have those credit card statements to finish, and I want to doublecheck that Markham’s massage is still scheduled for the 20th.” 

For the rest of the day, Arthur finds, to his surprise, that he's twice as productive and simultaneously far more relaxed than he had been the morning prior, and wonders if his interlude with Eames has anything to do with that.  He adds a checkmark to the “pro” side of his mental pros and cons list.  After the first few entries (unprofessional to be involved with a coworker, what would Cobb think, god only knows what Eames had stuck his dick into previously) the “cons” side has stopped growing, while the “pro” side (starting with _those lips_ and currently ending with “my increased sense of well-being after getting laid”) is steadily lengthening.  The rational thing to do, Arthur tells himself after running through both sides of the list again, is to gather more data.  

1:43 p.m.

_got what we need.  catching 2:15 flight back_

_Good_

_I’ll see you at baggage claim._

4:35 p.m.

“Uncle Gordon has continence issues,” Eames informs Arthur, handing him the PASIV. 

“He practices abstinence?” 

“No, the other kind.  I deserve hazard pay.” 

Arthur laughs out loud and opens the car door for Eames.  “You’re having a five-star tasting menu the night after the job ends.  I’ll even let you choose the wine.  Does that help?”

Eames looks genuinely pleased and surprised.  “Hmm.  Flying out of Portland makes me want a Willamette Valley pinot.” 

“I’m not that familiar with them, but I’ll trust your judgment.”  Arthur smoothly accelerates into traffic, heading back to the work suite.  “Apart from the biohazards, how did it go with Tanner?  Any issues we need to plan around?”

“From what I can tell, they had a genuine mentor-mentee relationship.  He’s quite fond of Markham but there’s nothing wonky there.  He has some interesting verbal tics I need to work on, but I don’t see any real problems with the forge.”  Eames tilts his seat back and gives Arthur a sidelong look, the sultry effect somewhat spoiled by the blotchy purple and yellow surrounding his eye. 

Arthur’s lips twitch at the sight, and after a moment, Eames’ do too. 

“I s’pose I should let this shiner heal up before trying to get back in your pants,” Eames says ruefully. 

“It is a little distracting,” Arthur admits.  “Nothing I can’t get over, though.”

Eames’ face lights up.  “Then what say we –”

“No,” Arthur interjects, “we’re going back to the suite, you’re going to let the ladies coo at your bruises some more, we’ll walk through the revisions we’ve made to the dream layout, you’ll show me your preliminary forge, and _then_ we can go back to your hotel room.  Or mine.”

“Such a strict taskmaster, Arthur.”

“It’s why you keep working with me, Mr. Eames.”

“Is that why?  I thought it was your pert little arse in those tight trousers you like so much.”  Eames grins. 

A thought occurs to Arthur.  “How long have I been cockblocking myself without knowing it?”

“You have been leading me on a merry chase since the Fischer job,” Eames informs him.   “Except I thought you were probably hetero, and might not have approached you if you hadn’t so blatantly fondled me yesterday.  So I suppose we’ve been cockblocking ourselves unnecessarily for at least, hmm, eight months now.” 

“That’s… what’s the word you use.  Bollocks?” 

“Bollocks,” Eames agrees.

When they arrive, Arthur parks the car in front of the building, but doesn’t get out immediately.  Eames waits politely for Arthur to formulate what he wants to say. 

“I think Thea, at least, has her suspicions, but can we keep this professional in front of the team?” Arthur asks bluntly.  

“I will if you do,” Eames says affably.  “As long as I get to be extremely unprofessional with you after hours.” 

“I look forward to seeing your least professional behavior at 8:00 sharp, then.” 

They shake on it, and head into the office. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They prepare for the job; Eames gets a massage.

Their "in" to sedate the mark had been uncertain until Arthur, while reviewing his calendars, had made the fortuitous discovery that Markham had an in-home massage every other week.  It had been the work of mere seconds to find the massage therapist's website and set up an appointment for him to give Eames a massage in his hotel room. 

Eames had reported back the next day that Jayson was very good at what he did and, moreover, was anxious to move out of the apartment he shared with four roommates, but was paying off student loans and barely scraping by. "Convince him that no actual harm will come to the mark, offer him a couple thousand dollars, and he'll be all ours," he told Arthur.

It has always been Arthur's preference to proceed entirely by subterfuge rather than trusting in a bribe, and he argued with Thea about finding another location that wouldn't require Jayson's participation. However, the setup was so perfect -- Markham lived alone, would be expecting Jayson, had no in-home security systems, and there were no neighbors home during the day to see them follow Jayson into Markham’s house -- that he finally agreed. 

The plan Eames was to present to Jayson was as follows:  Jayson will begin the massage with Markham face down and offer him a special “aromatherapy” face pillow.  Yusuf had prepared a short-acting, sandalwood-scented vaporizing sedative to soak the pillow.  Once Markham is out, Jayson will let the team in, and Thea, Eames and Arthur will go under with Markham using a custom Somnacin blend that includes a muscle relaxant and what Yusuf had vaguely described as “some other stuff,” intended to leave Markham feeling as relaxed as if he truly had enjoyed a full body massage.  Ariadne will stay above with Jayson and cue the kick. 

Arthur schedules a followup massage appointment so Eames can make the approach and explain the setup.  Eames returns to the office that afternoon glowing with oil and blurry with contentment. 

"A man's hands are always best, I think.  They're bigger, stronger.  Can really cover more ground, get those deep knots out," he purrs at Thea. 

"You sound like you've had hands on more than just your knots," she teases, her freckled little snub nose wrinkling as she gives him a mock-scandalized grin.  

"Oh, come now, it's possible for a man to be nude on a table with another man rubbing oil all over him, and both remain perfect gentlemen.”  Eames winks at her.

“So is he in, or not?” Arthur asks, shortly.

Eames nods.  “He’ll do it.  I promised him half the payout beforehand, half when we’re done."  He looks speculative, and then says, solicitously,  "You know, Arthur, you look a bit on edge, you might benefit from a good rubdown yourself.”

Arthur narrows his eyes, unable to tell if Eames is offering (no, he wouldn’t dare, he’d promised to remain professional at work) or taunting him (unlike _some_ people, Arthur had far too much work to finish to waste time on a massage). Eames blinks innocently, waiting for a response. Arthur turns around abruptly and shuts himself in his office. 

The thought of another man's hands on Eames' muscular back and perfect ass have him so irritable the rest of the day that Ariadne orders him to leave early and "go for a run or something, Arthur, jesus."  That evening in Eames' hotel room, Arthur delays his own gratification in favor of sucking fierce purple marks all over Eames' hips and shoulders, his brown eyes near-black with fury and possessiveness, almost daring Eames to comment.

Eames refuses to take the bait, merely watching, until finally he tackles Arthur, pins him to the bed, and expertly draws two orgasms out of him.

Later, after rinsing away their mingled sweat and semen, Eames examines his torso in the bathroom mirror. “Fifteen,” he announced.  “Arthur, I am impressed.”

Arthur steps out of the shower, toweling his hair, and winces at the sight, dropping a light kiss on Eames’ shoulderblade in apology.  “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

“ _I_  came _all_ over you,” Eames reminds him, straight-faced. 

Arthur blushes.  “No, I mean… damn, I really marked you.  I wasn’t thinking straight.”

 “No harm, darling, nobody to see it right now but you,” Eames responds lightly. He bumps his forehead gently against Arthur’s, then heads out of the bathroom to look for a pair of sleep pants.  Arthur follows and grasps his hand, turning him around. 

“Eames… I don’t know what we’re doing.  I mean, do you want… just because I don’t have a very active sex life, you don’t have to, I don’t know, hold yourself back on my account.  It’s just fun, right?  If you want to, that’s.  Other people. It’s fine.” 

Eames’ candid blue-grey eyes look full into Arthur’s unhappy brown ones.  He thinks for a moment before answering.  “Pet, I am not seeing anyone at the moment, and… this can be whatever you want it to be, but I’m not going to go looking for casual fucks while you’re willing to share my bed.  You’re brilliant and gorgeous and wonderfully lewd, and when you’re not overthinking everything you can even be fun.” 

Arthur frowns and looks down at that, and Eames reaches under his chin and tilts his head up, forcing Arthur to meet his eyes again.  “You don’t _need_ to mark me, because there’s nobody else, er, using this,” he waggles his junk cheerfully, “but if it gets you off, you can bite and suck me as much as you like. Anywhere you like.  I shall wear them proudly.”

“I bet you would,” Arthur mutters, but he stops frowning.  “Well, when you change your mind…”

“We’ll get there when we get there.” Eames rumples Arthur's hair amiably, then heaves his considerable bulk onto the bed.  “D’you feel like staying tonight?  It’s late, I’m knackered.  Although I’m afraid the sheets are a disaster.” 

Arthur resumes drying his tousled hair, and chews his lip, thinking.  “All right.  Here, lay an extra blanket down on top of the… ugh.” 

He feels oddly lighter, as he curls up next to Eames.  It's been years, literally, since he’s stayed overnight with a lover – the times he’d had to bunk down with Cobb while they were on the run obviously didn’t count. 

He isn't aware that he's fallen asleep until his phone alarm begins sounding at six the next morning and a warm, heavy arm lifts from his waist and begins flailing at him, shoving him toward the noise.  Arthur rolls groggily out of the bed and silences the alarm.  Resisting the temptation to return to the warm nest where Eames is happily snoring again (and, god, had he been doing that all night?  How had Arthur slept through that?), Arthur dresses quickly and scribbles a note on the hotel stationary:  "testing the Somnacin blend today, come find me in the dreamscape when you get in."  


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur feels... cuddly. This is not good.

The familiar pinch of the needle, a nod to Ariadne to push the PASIV button, a moment of unconsciousness, and Arthur is standing next to Thea in the now-familiar halls of the Natural History wing of a labyrinthian, non-existent museum. 

He blinks.  He doesn't remember the museum dreamscape being so ...beautiful.  The taxidermied dioramas seem to glow with life, and he feels a powerful urge to climb on and stroke the dappled, silky fur of the leopard in the exhibit just in front of him.  The petite redhead standing next to him giggles and throws an arm around his waist, reclining her head against his chest, and he finds he doesn't mind it at all; in fact, the bodily contact is sheer delight.  He rubs his cheek against her fiery hair, closes his eyes, and hums a nonsensical tune. He feels at perfect peace with the world and where he is right now.

Wait. Where he is, is in the museum.  In the dream.  He's supposed to be... doing something.  He tries to let go of Thea, and she resists.

"Arthur, it goes away in a minute.  Just - hug me."  She sways in his arms, nuzzling her face against his chest, and he gives up and just breathes, enjoying the floral scent of her perfume and marveling at the exotic tableaux around him.  After a few moments, she pulls away and gives him a startlingly sweet grin.  

"Hits you like a semi truck, doesn't it?" She fans herself, then grabs his hand and pulls.  "Come on, let me show you the new passages Ari put into the ceilings -- you can circumvent all three of the main galleries and go through the roof if you need to, and one of them opens into the sarcophagus." 

Bemused, he follows her, still marveling at how exquisite everything around him seems.  He's been under in this dreamscape before, and he definitely doesn't recall it feeling so, well, _blissful._   And what had happened to his careful "do not touch" rule with coworkers?  He's still holding Thea's hand as she points out the subtle markers where he can access the new hidden passages, leading him through the one-way maze of Ariadne's design.  The projections (his own, since Thea is the dreamer and he is the subject for purposes of this practice run) appear similarly enthralled and dreamy. 

A familiar, delighted voice greets them in the middle of the BODIES exhibit --"There you are!" -- before Eames tackles Arthur with one powerfully muscled arm and Thea with the other, pulling them inexorably into his torso.   Thea rubs his hand against her face and giggles. Arthur snuggles up to the familiar thick chest and neck, greedily inhaling Eames' clean, masculine scent, and only semi-consciously noting the complete absence of ink on Eames' skin.  He tries to remember the last time he'd felt so content, and his brain obediently supplies a mental image of a co-op party on the UC Berkeley campus.  It's only then that realization begins to dawn on him.

"Eames, what is the 'other stuff' Yusuf put in the Somnacin blend?"

The forger doodles kisses on Arthur's ear and does something to Thea's backside that makes her whoop with laughter.  "Um, muscle relaxant..."

"I know that part."

"Some SP-117..."

"How did Yusuf get his hands on KGB truth serum?  Actually, no, I don't want to know."

"...and some MDMA."

"Eames.  Eames, are you telling me I just took E?  Are we high right now?" 

"No, darling, 's perfectly safe.  Ari and I have gone under with it twice already, I had a nice kip afterward, none of the usual after-effects.  The amount is really quite low. You'll feel lovely when you wake up." 

"Right, I couldn't tell anything was wrong because you on ecstasy is no different than you perfectly sober.  Of course."

A faintly insulted expression drifts across Eames' face, but he's soon beaming again.  He pats Arthur's hair, then picks Thea up (as if she weighed no more than a puppy, Arthur can't help noticing) and hoists her over his shoulder, twirling her around as she howls with laughter.

Arthur puts his face in his hands. "I trusted you to fully report the effects.  I should have done the testing myself.  And Yusuf, that asshole!"

Craning her head over Eames' shoulder, Thea intervenes.  "Arthur, we agreed we needed a blend that would reduce inhibition and make Markham feel like he'd just received the massage of his life.  Trust me, this does the trick.  And Eames is right, there are no after-effects except an incredible sense of relaxation.  If Yusuf marketed this, it would put the massage industry completely out of business."

"We can't do the job if we're busy having a cuddle party!" Arthur moans.

"Cheer up, Charlie," Eames coaxes Arthur.  "Give us a smile." He puts Thea down, glances into a mirrored pillar nearby, and flickers into the gaunt, balding form of a fifty-five year old Gordon Tanner.  The fond expression coming from Tanner's face instead of Eames' is slightly unnerving, and then it disappears as Eames becomes all business.

"I've met Markham in the diorama room, rehashed some old times, and by the time we get to this point we're talking about his career."  Eames' husky British drawl has been replaced by a rapid-fire, flat Midwestern accent that Arthur recognizes from Tanner's videotaped lectures, and his easy, extroverted reaction to the Somnacin blend has disappeared.  "I am a science professional and therefore find the plasticized peeled-open human bodies all around me fascinating instead of bloody repellant.  As we reach the end of this hall, I ask what projects he's working on right now."

Eames strides rapidly out of the room and into the Egypt exhibit.  Arthur follows him, while Thea steps through a hidden door in the BODIES exhibit to take her place, dressed as a museum guard, next to a gaudy sarcophagus.  Eames proceeds to carry on a one-sided conversation with the thin air next to him as he strolls through the gleaming, ancient treasures. 

Arthur knows better than to engage in the conversation with him -- as the subject of this dream, he doesn't want his own secrets appearing in any of the designated treasure objects.  Instead, he watches his projections mill about.  Eames seems to have been able to quash his reaction to the drugs in his system, but Arthur's projections are still wide-eyed and affectionate, cuddling together as they marvel at the fake precious objects (Ariadne really has outdone herself, he notes), holding hands and gazing at each other as they sit on the benches in the center of the room.  Well, he supposed, it probably wouldn't do any harm to have the mark feeling happy and relaxed throughout the dream, and it should make the projections easier to deal with.  It was possible they wouldn't be alarmed at all.  He watched Eames finish his "conversation," give a polite one-armed embrace to the empty air in front of him, and disappear behind a pillar, emerging again as himself and waiting for Arthur to join him. 

Together, they walked into the next room, considering each of the colorful, lyrical paintings there while Thea doublechecked each of the designated treasure objects in the room he'd just exited.  A whistle from the end of the gallery drew his attention, and Thea stepped out of one of the hidden passages and shot him a thumbs up sign as music began to play. 

"Perfect timing!" he calls down to her.  She grins at him, and then produces a Glock from an ankle holster and casually shoots herself through the head.  The museum rumbles as the dreamer departs, and Arthur's projections finally look alarmed and angry, picking up whatever objects were closest to them and bearing down menacingly on him.  Before they can reach him or Eames, however, the kick comes, and Arthur is opening his eyes on a cot in the dreaming room.

He is unsurprised to realize that Eames was right; he feels amazingly loose and refreshed, like a child awaking after a solid night's sleep on a golden, sunny summer morning with the whole day's potential stretching before him.  He stretches lazily, not wanting to get up right away.  Beside him, Thea seems to almost purr as she snuggles on her side, pillowing her face on one hand and blinking her clear green eyes with dreamy contentment.  On his other side, Eames folds his hands under the back of his neck and hums.  Arthur snorts as he recognizes "The Candy Man," and Eames winks. 

"Feeling better, pet?" 

Arthur reluctantly nods, and can't repress a smile.

Ariadne, who had been monitoring them, snickers.  "You all look like you had quite the orgy down there.  Run-through go smoothly?" 

Thea smirks. "The timing was right on.  And I learned about an evening at UC Berkeley, in 1998, our point man's first and last experience with mushrooms." 

Fuck.  Arthur hadn't realized he actually had contributed a "treasure" to the mummy room.  He tolerates the laughter of his teammates with good grace, though. 

As they all rise to exit the room, Thea pulls Arthur's shoulder down, and lowers her voice so that Eames and Ariadne can't hear her.  "You left a few unexpected images of Eames in the sarcophagus, too. If they're accurate, he should be shooting porn for a living."  He stares at her, aghast, and she shakes her head. "I won't tell.  Just wanted you to know, to be more careful with your secrets." 

 


	6. Chapter 6

Jayson was younger than Arthur had expected, but the description Eames had given was otherwise entirely accurate, right down to the whimsical twist of his lips and arch of his (pierced) eyebrows. Short, spiky purple hair and dreamy hazel eyes made him easy to spot in the crowd at the coffee shop where they had agreed to meet.  He had more ink than Eames did, full-color sleeves on both arms (botanical themes, not really Arthur's taste, but well-designed) and some Arabic text circling his neck just below the jaw.  When they shook hands, his firm grip sent a renewed flash of jealousy through Arthur as he remembered how blissed-out Eames had been after having those strong hands on his body, but he stifled it and handed Jayson the bag with the supplies and first half of his payment in it.

"The cloth in the bag will fit over a standard massage table face rest.  The brown bottle has the sedative mix in it; spray all of the mixture onto the cloth and arrange it just before he lays down.  It should work within two or three minutes, and I'd spend that time working from his lower back and down instead of his shoulders, if you can.  The scent is actually pretty faint, so that he'll tolerate it being so near his face, but that means you won't be able to tell from the smell whether you're being dosed as well.  It's harmless, no after effects -- I tested it on myself repeatedly."

The masseuse nodded.  "What if he doesn't fall asleep, or doesn't like the scent?"   

Arthur smiled.  "Oh, he'll fall asleep.  It worked on me every time, and I knew it was there.  If he decides he hates the scent, he'll still have got a good dose of it with the first breath, and there's a syringe with a different, fast acting sedative in the bag.  You'll have to pass it off as accidentally scratching him with a ring or a fingernail, but it'll put him out long enough for us to get in and set him up with the machine.  There's a small transmitter in the bag as well; press it when he's out, and we'll come in and get started."

"And Eames said he won't remember anything that happens, and he'll think he fell asleep during the massage, and that's it."  Jayson looked skeptical, but he could obviously see the sheaf of hundred dollar bills in the bag, and Arthur noticed with amusement that his grip on the bag was white-knuckled. 

"Right.  Every member of our team has tried it, and I guarantee you he will wake up happy and loose and believing he's just had the best massage in the world.  You need to make sure he's coated with whatever cream or oil you usually use, and he won't be able to tell that you haven't been working on him the full hour.  When we leave, we'll leave the rest of the money for you.  One of our team members will remain above with you to monitor the situation and wake us early if necessary." 

Jayson exhaled shakily, then stood up.  "All right.  You know where he lives?"

Arthur stood as well.  "Yes, we'll be waiting in a car.  We'll expect your signal before 1:10, and we should be out of the house by 1:40 at the very latest." 

Half an hour later, they were in Arthur's rental car on a quiet suburban street, waiting for Jayson's transmission. Ariadne was listening to K-pop through her earbuds and doodling what looked like a haunted house layout in her notebook. Thea was meditating next to her in the backseat, occasionally thwapping Ariadne with an elbow when she started humming.  Eames, in the front seat, had pleaded with Arthur to stop at a sushi restaurant on the way ("I went to the gym this morning, need some protein to keep going, darling") and was working his way cheerfully through a mind-boggling assortment of nigiri balanced on his broad lap.  He offered Arthur a piece of toro, but Arthur was always too keyed up just before a job to eat anything.  He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and stared at the receiver on the dashboard, willing it to go off.

At 1:08, the LED on the receiver lit up. Arthur silently turned it off, got out of the car, and retrieved the PASIV from the trunk. Eames licked his fingers, looked regretfully at the remainder of his meal, and headed toward the house. Thea exhaled, murmured "namaste," and followed him.  Ariadne turned off her music, carefully stowed her notebook in her bag, and checked the Beretta in the holster at her hip.  "Go time!" she stage-whispered to Arthur, and bounced after Eames and Thea.

Arthur gave her a tight smile, and joined the rest of the team at Markham's front door.  Jayson opened the door, looking worried -- needlessly, as soon became apparent; the olive-skinned man on the portable massage table was snoring mightily beneath his modesty sheet, and he didn't stir as Thea set up the PASIV and connected him to it.  She and Eames fitted their cannulas and arranged themselves on the floor next the the table, while Arthur propped himself in a chair that would be easy for Ariadne to tip if she needed to give him an early kick.

Arthur looked at Jayson.  "Ari has the rest of your money on her. She also has a gun.  Anything makes her feel suspicious in any way, she wakes me up.  You don't want that to happen.  Don't come too close to her, don't use your phone, and there won't be any problem."

Ariadne smiled and waved.  Jayson's eyes widened, and he backed away rapidly and sat down on the far edge of Markham's leather couch.

"Ari." Arthur waited until she was looking at him. "I do _not_ want to hear G-Dragon before the kick.  Stick with the Debussy we agreed on." 

She mock-pouted, but agreed, then poised her finger over the PASIV trigger.  At Arthur's nod, she pushed the button.

***************************************************************************

Arthur was standing in the diorama gallery again, this time dressed in a snug-fitting navy museum guard uniform.  He fought the now-familiar wave of exuberance and the urge to hug his teammates, instead checking to make sure his designated arsenal was in place about his person.  After satisfying himself that he was fully armed, Arthur positioned himself near the door between the dioramas and the BODIES exhibit so that he could casually move into the next room when Eames and the mark did. Thea, dressed similarly to Arthur and with her red hair tied back in a severe knot, slipped into a secret passage that would take her to the Egypt room.  Eames flickered into Gordon Tanner, doublechecked his image in a mirorred pillar, and planted himself in front of the Africa diorama, waiting for the mark.

When Markham materialized a few beats later, so did his projections.  Arthur noted with amusement that the special Somnacin blend was doing its work well; all over the gallery, mothers were cooing at babies in their arms, fathers hoisted grinning toddlers onto their shoulders, lovers stood hip to hip with hands in each others' back pockets, and a class of elementary school children swarmed their teacher in a giant, squealing group hug.  Markham beamed at the children and then appeared to be lost in contemplation of a stuffed gnu; he halfway reached out as if to touch it, then seemed to catch himself and merely stared, his head tilted and a faint smile on his face. 

"Phillip?" Eames raised Gordon Tanner's flat Midwestern voice slightly, in order to be heard over the ecstatic child projections.  "Phil Markham?" 

Markham's expression was confused and doubting for a moment, and the projections stilled.  Then his face lit up and he exclaimed "Mr. Tanner?  I can't believe it.  What are you doing here?" The projections resumed their happy chatter and snuggling. 

Tanner proffered a hand, and Markham shook it enthusiastically.  "I came to see the BODIES exhibit -- it's an impressive display, have you seen it yet?"

Markham shook his head. "I've only read about it, but it's always intrigued me.  What have you been up to?  Are you still teaching?" 

He appeared to be buying the forge wholeheartedly.  Around them, the projections seemed unconcerned, ignoring the team members entirely.  Arthur realized, with some annoyance, that Yusuf's new blend could render his own protective, guardian presence in the dream completely superfluous.  He pushed a headset button and murmured to Thea, "it's working."

"Great - let me know when they've entered the BODIES room," she whispered. After a brief pause, she spoke up again in an undertone, obviously stifling a laugh. "There's a pre-adolescent couple snogging in here, I'm going to have to say something to them before they upset some of the parent projections. Keep an eye on yours in case they get hinky." 

Arthur thanked her for the warning, but whatever she did must not have alarmed Markham's subconscious; he and Tanner continued chatting, their faces animated.  Markham's body language was completely open and comfortable, and the projections milling in front of the dioramas remained happy and relaxed.  As they spoke, Tanner deftly steered Markham through the gallery, past Arthur, and into the human body exhibit.  Markham was describing what sounded like his first post-college job to Tanner, and Arthur marveled internally at Eames' skill -- the conversation was exactly on time and the topics were running just as they'd planned.  He casually switched from the guard position in the diorama room to a similar position in the body room so he could monitor their continued progress. 

"Moving into location two," he warned Thea. 

Flanking the far door of the gallery were a plasticized, opened human heart on one side, and a pregnant woman with her uterus flapped open and the half-term fetus inside clearly visible.  Ariadne had worried that the positioning of the two exhibits was too obvious, but Thea and Eames had argued her down.  Arthur strolled casually behind a large exhibit of flayed children playing with a flayed dog, thinking to himself that Eames was right again and "fucking repulsive" was a pretty apt description of the whole exhibition, and triggered a trap door that dropped him into a hidden passage that ran under the Egypt room.  He switched the frequency of his headset to the wire Eames was wearing (disguised as a hearing aid) so he could listen to the conversation with Markham, and crouched in front of a bank of security cameras that displayed the four galleries Ariadne had designed, as well as the hidden passages and traps behind the walls of the museum proper.  A young Goth couple seemed to have discovered one of the passages from the Classical room and were quietly groping each other in the dark privacy of the tunnel, but Markham's subconscious didn't seem to have registered anything out of the ordinary about that, and otherwise the projections seemed content to gaze at the various art installations, cuddle one another, and giggle. 

He watched as Tanner and Markham neared the far door of the BODIES room.  As they passed the two exhibits flanking the door and moved into the Egypt room, Eames gave his cue:  "I've co-authored a paper coming out next year on the use of umbilical stem cell tissues in the attachment of prosthetic implants.  I'd love your comments on a draft."

The comment should have been innocuous -- Tanner really had played a minor role in authoring such a paper, although it had been published seven years ago.  However, for the first time in the dream, Markham frowned and recoiled slightly from Tanner.  "You always said you didn't have time to write anything.  You always said you were a only a teacher."  The quiet, happy hum of his projections' conversation grew slightly louder and discordant as the smiles melted from their faces and their collective gaze began to focus on Tanner.

"Oh, god," Arthur groaned into Thea's channel.  "He's a fucking snob."  He switched rapidly to Eames' channel and whispered urgently, "He obviously doesn't believe a high school teacher has the brains to get published.  Downplay your role in the paper and move on."

Eames recovered smoothly, the faint lines of puzzlement in his face smoothing out as he admitted, "I really only played a support role; the other writers at the university did the bulk of the work.  The advances they've made are incredible, and I was honored to work with them on such a beneficial process.  Have you been following the recent publications?"

"Nice recovery," Arthur whispered.  Tanner's expression didn't change, but Arthur could see the tension leaving his frame as Markham responded with detectable pride, "Actually, I hope to publish myself soon, on a process we've been working on with umbilical cells and damaged heart tissues.  I can't tell you much because we're working on the patent application, but the gist of it is that..." He continued, imemdiately belying his own words as he elaborated at length on his research.  The projections relaxed again and resumed their contented chatter.  Arthur made a note to thank Yusuf as soon as they were out of the dream; the sodium pentothal in the mix was obviously reducing Markham's inhibitions and making him more loquacious than usual. 

"I hope Eames is retaining some of this," Thea muttered in his headset.  "It's fucking gibberish to me."

"You just need to reproduce what appears on the papyrus.  Eames has studied the science enough to help you decode whatever shows up there," he reassured her.  And where, Arthur wondered, but did not verbalize, did he get off feeling the absurd sense of pride in Eames that had just flooded him, unbidden?  He decided to dismiss it as an artifact of the Somnacin. 

Markham and Tanner had been slowly moving through the Egypt exhibit as they spoke.  When they approached the far door, Tanner paused and Markham kept speaking.  Finally, Tanner looked at his watch, pulled a regretful face, and announced that he had _so_ enjoyed running into Markham, but had to get to an appointment. He reached out to give Markham a hearty, one-armed hug, while enthusing that "the Classical exhibit in the next room is supposed to be outstanding, there are some new Botticellis and Titians in there."  As he released the hug, he subtly nudged Markham into the doorway. 

While Markham peered into the Classical gallery, Tanner vanished behind a vertically poised sarcophagus.  Markham turned around again and looked for Tanner, a perplexed expression on his face, then shrugged and moved ahead into the next room.  As soon as Markham had turned the corner into the Classical gallery, cutting off his view of the mummy exhibit, Thea began silently ransacking the treasure objects, looking for a writing so that she could memorize the contents to share with their employer topside. Eames waited a moment, then stepped out from behind the sarcophagus as himself again and sauntered into the gallery after the mark.   

Arthur left his hidden room and emerged into the art gallery, noting with satisfaction that Markham seemed happily engrossed by the silky, electric blues in "Madonna with Child" and that the gaggle of schoolchildren projections had reappeared and were giggling over van Eyck's portrait of Saint Jerome.  It occurred to him that it was an odd juxtaposition; Markham's projections included an unusually large proportion of children, pregnant women, and babies, while the exhibits they had set up for him -- the taxidermied animals, plasticized human cadavers, and mummies -- consisted entirely of death.  He wondered if it was related to Markham's stem cell work, and made a note to bounce that off the team afterward, to see if any lesson could be drawn from it.  For now, though, he was focused on finishing the job without alarming Markham's projections. 

"Found it," Thea murmured into their shared headset channel.  Across the room, Eames immediately looked away from where he had been staring at Titian's "Woman at the Mirror" and cocked his head at Arthur.  It took Arthur a moment to realize that Eames was motioning him toward a hidden room.  He left his post and joined Eames in a quiet enclosure behind an elaborate Renaissance door. 

"Eames, that was..." he started in a low voice.

"Fucking brilliant," Eames whispered jubilantly, "all of it -- come here, you," and he tugged Arthur by the belt buckle into a growling, exultant embrace.   Arthur half-heard the strains of "Claire de Lune" in the background, but his attention by that point was primarily focused on Eames and getting his hands on as much of Eames as possible, and finding a hard surface to press Eames against and grind into him, and the sharp, clean smells of soap and cologne in his nose as he mouthed at Eames' neck.  When the kick came, they rode it up together. 

**********************************************************************************

Arthur kept his eyes closed a beat longer than necessary, feeling the familiar lingering euphoria, all of his senses still keening for Eames' touch, Eames' scent, the sight of Eames' smoky blue-grey eyes and his plush, laughing mouth.  Around him, he could hear Eames and Thea stirring, Ariadne shutting down the PASIV, Markham still snoring appallingly.  He opened his eyes, fought the urge to doze off removed the cannula from his wrist, and almost absentmindedly blotted the drop of blood that arose, before doing the same for Markham and winding the lines into the PASIV case. 

Ariadne dug in her bag and approached Jayson, handing him an envelope with his remaining payment.  He only flinched a little bit.  "He'll be out for another few minutes, but you probably want to resume the massage before that," she told him matter-of-factly, nodding at Markham's prostrate form on the table. 

Thea and Eames were already outside when Arthur finished packing up the PASIV and scanning the room.  He shook Jayson's hand briefly and followed them out the door.  In the car, the rest of the team was silent while Thea narrated the information from the papyrus scrolls into a voice recorder, with Eames clarifying words and concepts from time to time. 

Arthur drove straight to the airport, as Thea and Ariadne had already packed their bags and scheduled flights for that evening.  Ariadne only squeezed his shoulder and rumpled Eames' hair when he pulled up to her terminal, but Thea asked Arthur to help lift her luggage from the trunk.  When he obliged, puzzled (she had managed to lift the bag into the car on her own with no problem) she tilted her snub-nosed little face up to his and murmured, "You don't need me to tell you what will happen if the dreamshare community finds out how you feel about him." 

He opened his mouth to deny it, and she touched his lips with a cool finger.  "I'm not a threat to you, Arthur.  Your own face will betray you.  Guard it more closely."  She drew back and said in a much louder voice, "Thank you. Please, call me any time you have work -- it's a pleasure doing business with both of you." 

He gaped at her for a few seconds before responding.  "Likewise.  Your payment should arrive within three days."

Eames stuck his head out the car window and grinned at her.  "Good work, as always, Thee.  Give Oliver a kiss from us, yeah?" 

She ducked her head in agreement, blew him a breezy kiss, and disappeared inside the terminal. 

Arthur got back in the car, but before he drove away, he had to ask:  "Oliver?" 

"Absolutely stunning mastiff she owns.  A really superbly large animal. He adores me."

"I didn't know you were that close with Thea," Arthur said, trying to keep the trace of envy out of his voice.

"Oh, yeah, I had to crash with her this one time, job went bad in Des Moines, she and her partner let me stay a few days until the hubbub died down.  I got to rumpus all over the place with Oliver," Eames chuckled, remembering.  Then: "Hey, that was bloody good work down there.  Haven't had a job run so smoothly since... well.  Last time we worked together, I s'pose."  He squeezed Arthur's thigh appreciatively.  "Feel like a rumpus of our own, hmm?" 

Arthur shook his head, but he was smiling.  "First we clean out the office.  You know the drill.  I have to call the client, and I want you to transcribe Thea's dictation into something coherent that we can send him.  Once the suite is empty and the transfer is on its way, I'm all yours."

Eames made a rude noise, but didn't lift his hand from Arthur's thigh.  "No ravaging you on the conference table?  Because, truth, I've been thinking of nothing else since we woke up."  His hand crept higher, and Arthur shifted in his seat as his pants suddenly felt uncomfortably tight.

"Down, boy!" He firmly removed Eames' hand and placed it on his knee instead. "Besides, we don't have any condoms or lube at the office."

"Ah, there you are wrong," Eames told him, smugly. 

"Eames, seriously?  No.  We are not fucking in the office."

Eames was quiet, and then purred, in his lowest, huskiest voice:  "Arrrrthur."

"No."

"The things I could do to you, Arrrthur.  The filthy, amazing things I want to do to you with my tongue.  And my fingers.  And the packet of slick in my pocket.  In my pocket right now, Arthur, I can open it up and get my hand nice and wet, wrap it around your cock, stroke you open till you're begging me to bend you over..." 

Arthur gave up fighting his erection and let himself imagine, for just a few seconds, the scenario Eames was describing.  He gave in.  "God..." he groaned.  "You promised to be professional at work." 

"Bosh.  The ladies are gone, nobody to see what's professional or not.  And I want to express my admiration for the fine work you put in that has made us both tens of thousands of dollars richer, with no gunshots, no deaths and not even a bloody fist fight.  And for your fine arse, but that part goes without saying." 

When they arrived, Arthur made Eames type out Thea's dictation, and then ordered him to clean out the dreaming room while Arthur called the client with the transcription.  Eames seemed willing to put a hold on his lewd pledges in order to get the tasks finished, which Arthur was grateful for.  Not that he didn't want it every bit as badly as Eames did, but he wanted to be able to let go and give himself entirely to the experience without worrying about the remaining details of the job. 

Once they'd finished shredding documents, packing away the cots, boxing up Ariadne's models, and wiping down surfaces that might have held fingerprints, Arthur caught Eames' eye, slowly turned, and bent, deliberately, over the conference room table.  Eames' eyes lit up and he acted with despatch, removing Arthur's clothes and his own, stroking Arthur's chest and ass, groping Arthur fore and aft and producing a lube packet and condom out of seemingly nowhere, apparently using six hands at once.  Arthur heard a high, breathy whimper and was briefly embarrassed to realize it was coming out of his own mouth, before Eames' lips were glued to his.  They tasted warm and salty and Arthur couldn't get enough of them. He could feel Eames smiling into his mouth before he pulled off and began licking and nibbling down Arthur's neck, pushing Arthur down on his back on the table, whispering more filthy promises and fulfilling each of them in the next breath.

Eames leaned over him and paused, stroking Arthur's long leg that was folded over his shoulder.  "Christ, you're lovely," he husked, turning his head and nuzzling into Arthur's calf, expertly corkscrewing his fingers into Arthur before pulling on the condom one-handed and pressing into him with a reverent exhale.  For a few moments the room resounded with groans, whispered curses, deep breaths, and the slick sounds of skin on wet skin.

The sight of Eames above him, all that toned, inked, rippling flesh and those intelligent, riveting eyes, combined with the lingering euphoria of the dream blend and Arthur's fierce admiration for what Eames had accomplished in the dream with only two weeks' lead time, meant Arthur lasted what would have been an embarrassingly short time, if Eames hadn't also come remarkably quickly, with a stutter and three deep, bruising thrusts. Eames braced himself on the table with his elbows, his heavy head pressed to Arthur's chest, as they recovered.  

"I take it back, you can despoil me on the conference table any time," Arthur panted.  Eames made an incoherent noise into Arthur's armpit and didn't move, but Arthur didn't miss the twitch of his thick cock where it was still buried in him up to the hilt.  After a few minutes, Arthur was fighting to breathe, and he reluctantly shoved at the warm, inert bulk of Eames' body until the other man stood up, unsteadily.  He looked rumpled but peaceful and uncommonly happy; Arthur was used to the various masks Eames habitually wore to conceal his true feelings, and seeing the forger so open and candid sent a rush of warmth through him.  He kissed Eames lightly on the neck and then the lips before hightailing it to the suite's tiny bathroom to clean up; the condom had caught most of the mess, but Eames had been generous with the lube beforehand, and Arthur had no particular desire to ruin his favorite pair of suit pants.  

When he emerged, Eames, still nude, was holding the full condom in his hand and looking around blearily as if wondering what to do with it.  

"Right," Arthur realized, "um..."  He hunted for an empty bag and handed it to Eames.  

Eames nodded at the table.  "Best wipe that down too, love.  No use cleaning our fingerprints and leaving an ass print, hmm?"  

Arthur was slightly horrified to realize that yes, that was his back and buttocks clearly delineated on the table in a light film of sweat, with a few smears of oil in the appropriate place to top it off.  He dressed quickly and retrieved the cleaning supplies from their box, taking extra care to eradicate all traces of their activities from the table as Eames finished dressing.  When he had finished wiping it down and was looking around to ensure he hadn't missed anything that could link them to the suite, a pair of muscular arms curved around him from behind, and the forger's low, throaty voice murmured in his ear, "since you're treating tomorrow, let me take you out tonight, pet.  And buy you breakfast in the morning, yeah?"  

Although he knew Eames couldn't see it, Arthur felt his lips curl into a small, pleased smile at the thought of spending the night together again.  He leaned his head back against Eames' warm, bulky shoulder and closed his eyes, content.  


End file.
